Achilles' Heel
by anexistence
Summary: When Betty Cooper moved to New York to work on her career, she hardly expected it to be this hard. She also never expects history to come waltzing into her workplace many years later. It feels familiar, though shocking at first, to see Archie Andrews all grown up and sporting a five o'clock shadow. The two fall into a familiar pattern, though not everything is as easy as it seems.
1. 1

**{it hits you}**

* * *

Betty Cooper had wanted to become a journalist from the very first moment her grandfather showed her their most prized family heirloom, the old typewriter. Which, looking back on it, had been extremely cliché, that much she knew. She also knew from that very moment, somehow in the back of her mind, that she wanted to tell stories. Stories, but not necessarily fiction. The stories had to be real, had to be fleshed out, the people she would talk about had to exist. And what she wrote, it had to matter, it had to stand for something. Best-case scenario, her writing was meant to change the world.

Betty Cooper moved to New York to make her writing worthwhile. To change the world, as the romantics would put it. She ended up, bushy tailed and wide eyed, in a small apartment she had been paying far too much for. The girl gave it an honest try; she wrote, she explored the city, and worked various jobs, though the favourite must have been the one in the small library a block away from her apartment. It had been a perfect set up for a total of three months until the library, tiny and cute as it was, had to close down due to a lack of customers. She was, of course, saddened by the news, perhaps because she loved the books, quite possibly because the library had grown to be one of her favourite places, but mostly because it meant she would have to find a new job. It was good while it lasted, though. Betty would work the morning shift on most days, when little to no customers came in—if they did they would leave quickly, without asking for her help—and when the shift ended the blonde had plenty of time to work on her articles, all of which had been freelance work. Journalism required experience, and few were ready to offer it to an inexperienced writer just out of college. At night, before falling asleep, she would hope that one of the articles would end up being accepted and published. Sometimes, the work she had put in was worth it, and she could read her name under an article title; it happened rarely. Most times she would receive an email—or a call if the person in question decided to treat her with some extra decency—to let her know that the article would not make it in the next issue. _Perhaps, the following number, next month_ , they always ended their conversation on the same note: _'not today, but maybe tomorrow'; 'you're an outstanding writer'; 'my supervisor just does not see how the story fits into this month's issue anymore'_.

"Fuck your supervisor," Betty muttered at the bright screen of her laptop. The clock on the wall, a lovely vintage piece, showed 1 a.m. She had an early shift to wake up for the next morning, but the deadline for the last article she had been writing—and she had put in at least a week into this one—was the following morning at eight. Though she could promise herself that she would wake up earlier if she just went to bed right that moment, Betty knew that, once morning came, she would need at least half an hour to get back into the writing mood that she was in at that moment.

The last of the cold coffee in her favourite mug tasted more sweet than bitter as she drank it in one gulp in hopes it would keep her awake for as long as it took to finish the article.

"Come on, Cooper," the girl muttered, eyes fixed on the bright screen, "you can do this."

The silence of the small living room was broken by the sound of her fingers hitting the keyboard at an outstanding pace. At half past two Betty set her alarm, just in case; it would not bode well for her if she forgot to set it later. Forty minutes after she pressed send on the email, not bothering to check for any typos in the column she had sent in. They would send it back for her to proofread and polish if they decided they liked it well enough. Without taking her makeup off Betty collapsed on top of her bed and fell into a deep sleep that seemed to have lasted barely a couple of minutes.

The blonde woke up in the same position, as the alarm blared from her phone. Her hair had gotten messier, and the leftover mascara smudged around her eyes. The pink lipstick she had worn the day before had imprinted on the pale pillowcase, and transferred from her lips to her left cheek.

"Ugh," she hit snooze on the alarm before tying her hair in a messy bun. The sun was yet to come up.

Her bedroom was a mess, Betty noted that fact as she scoured the room. Drowsily she added another chore to the ever-growing list in her phone's notepad; she would have to do her laundry first, though, before cleaning the bedroom. The bathroom, to Betty's relief, was as clean as ever, same as always. Next to her beloved kitchen, it was the room she made sure to keep clean at all times. There was something cringe inducing in the thought of her bathroom being anything but spotless.

Oftentimes, the only thing Betty needed in the morning was a refreshing shower, though on the mentioned morning nothing seemed to help. Even washing her hair did not wake her up, nor did it drive away the sickening feeling of her empty stomach. The last meal she had was the takeout dinner nearly half a day ago. She brushed her teeth in the shower, disgusted at the taste in her mouth and not caring about spitting the toothpaste out on her foot. Alice Cooper, her lovely proper mother, may have been shocked at the idea that her perfect daughter would do such a thing, though Betty never understood why. The woman would have also been surprised at the way Betty stepped outside of the spacious shower and, wrapped in a towel though still wet, made her way back to the messy bedroom. Mrs Cooper would have also disapproved at the way Betty dried her skin before dropping the towel on the radiator, and sauntering off—completely naked, right in front of her window—towards her wardrobe where she proceeded to pick out an appropriate outfit for the day.

It made Betty smile sometimes, especially during crappy mornings, when she would think of just how many of her standard routines her mother would disapprove of. With a tired smirk on her face, her stomach grumbling, and the sound of her heartbeat drumming away in her ears, she walked back to the bathroom, now fully dressed.

"I'm a mess," the familiar face stared back at her from the wide mirror. The blonde rubbed away the mascara from her blood shoot eyes. "Mess, mess, mess," she chanted while swiping away at her tired skin, cleaning her face meticulously, first taking of the old makeup with a cotton swab and some micellar water, before moving on to an Aloe vera cleansing gel. When she looked at herself, after patting her face dry with a towel, Betty would have liked to think she looked much better. If nothing, at least she no longer looked as if she spent a night clubbing.

"And now," Betty reached for her makeup bag, "time to look alive."

As carefully as each morning, she applied makeup. First, her moisturizer, the one her mother had been buying her for years. Though the girl rarely liked to admit it, Alice Cooper could—on a rare occasion—be right about something. Such occasion was the mentioned moisturizer which transformed her skin from dry and tired, to acceptable and glowing on the worst of mornings. Having always avoided heavy foundation, she applied her trusty BB cream before nearly poking her eye out with the new mascara. As a finishing touch, she applied a bright fuscia pink lipstick to her lips, once again thinking of how her mother would have disapproved.

On her way out Betty grabbed a banana, it would have to suffice until her break. Her grumbling stomach disagreed as she stepped into the old lift, but there was not much that could be done about it, she thought, as she bit into the fruit.

Betty worked, ironically, in a small locally owned coffee shop just a five minute walk from her apartment. She had been working there for over two months. The pay check was good, the owner—a wonderfully charming middle aged woman who, apparently, had an array of handsome lovers—was perfectly wonderful, and the clientele were usually around her age and, for the most part, polite and kind. There was not a thing to complain about, save for perhaps the dark blue uniform which made Betty look deadly pale. This was something she could easily ignore once Rosalind—the owner—handed her the monthly salary – enough to pay for her overpriced apartment.

"Morning," the backroom had been decorated as nicely as was the coffee shop itself.

Rosalind was sitting in her armchair reading the newspaper, "Hello, Betty," she smiled. "Early as always."

"I thought I was going to be late, for sure," she left her bag in the locker, and turned her back to the woman while she changed into the coffee shop designated uniform, which was a navy blue button up.

"You're never late, Cooper," the woman smiled at her over the top of the newspaper, "it's Pauline I always worry about. Especially when I assign her the early shift." The paper rustling told Betty that Rosalind had flipped a page. She heard her let out a soft " _tsk_ ".

"What is it?"

Betty could never help but notice how beautiful, yet non-conventionally attractive, her boss was.

"Oh, little Betty," the woman chuckled, "merely the stock market. I will have to take care of it." She stood up and headed for her office, "If you're done here please set up at the front. We open in twenty minutes."

"Sure," but Rosalind did not wait for Betty's response before shutting the door to her office. The woman only ever used it for serious business. The blonde girl tightened the high ponytail and checked her teeth for any treacherous lipstick stains. Once satisfied, she headed to the front, where the place was in dire need of setting up for the early morning customers.

Pauline rushed into the coffee shop from the backroom five minutes before they were set to open, hurriedly tying her hair into a ponytail.

"I am _so_ sorry," she muttered, taking up setting the menus on the tables.

"No problem," Betty had prepared most of the shop for the oncoming customers. The paper cup holder was full, the coffee ready, and the variety of cakes were sitting in the display.

At 7 o'clock sharp, Pauline unlocked the door before hurrying behind the counter.

"I am so sorry," the girl said again, her apologetic brown eyes holding Betty's gaze.

The blonde waved her off, with a genuine smile on her face. "Really, it's no big deal."

"Okay, okay. Thank you."

"No problem."

A minute later, the first customer walked in, followed by an array of their usual guests. Pauline always chatted with a blonde guy who worked at a graphic design studio down the street. Betty rarely chatted as much as her co-worker did, though from time to time a handsome man would come and try to flirt while ordering a latte with extra milk. She would smile politely while handing him the order and he would ask for her number. Sometimes Betty wondered if claiming she did not have a phone was a rude thing to do. More than often, she would come to a conclusion that chatting up a waitress as she worked on your order would have to be considered a much ruder action.

Rosalind usually joined the morning shift around 8:30—which turned out to be the case for the day—after she had one of her very own pot brownies, and proceeded to flirt with the customers, as long as they were responding to her flirtation appropriately.

"He was cute," she would then turn to Betty to gauge her reaction. She did so once the perfectly average business man left the shop.

Nearly always Betty smiled and replied, "Not really my type."

"Do you hear this, Pauline," Rosalind whispered to the other girl, "I can't seem to figure out little Betty's type."

Pauline always, without a fail, went along with Rosalind's loving teasing, "Maybe our goldilocks would prefer a pretty girl." She winked at Betty.

"No," the older woman smiled, observing the young blonde. From the distance, a jingle sounded as another customer stepped into the sunbathed coffee shop. And just like that, as Betty looked up to greet them, her blue eyes widened and her lips parted in shock, or awe, but most likely a mix of both.

"I think we've found little Betty's type," Rosalind nudged the brunette standing next to her, and the two of them took in the handsome boy—no, the handsome man—standing in front of awestruck Betty Cooper.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** A bit of a coffee shop AU without it being totally AU. I've been super into writing about Betty and Archie lately._


	2. 2

**{touch and go}**

* * *

The hotel room was on the fancier side, Archie noted as he walked in pulling a suitcase behind him. His flight had been delayed, and as a result he ended up barely eating the whole day. The meal served on the plane was highly unlikely to keep the hunger at bay for an extended period of time, by which he meant until the morning of the following day.

The bathroom was decently sized; a standing shower and a bathtub still left enough space for a large sink in front of a wide, tall mirror. The towels were soft, not as soft as in some other hotels he had stayed in, but soft enough that Archie had to wonder how much a night spent in the hotel would cost him. There was an assortment of pillows, in at least three varying sizes, aligned along the headboard of the king sized bed. He looked at himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that had been placed on the wall left to the bed, and Archie could not help but wonder if Veronica had suggested the hotel for reasons other than its proximity to the Lodge headquarters. There had always existed a certain physical chemistry between them, neither one could deny it, though any feelings had dwindled out long before they left Riverdale behind. The two had not spoken in years, not until the business deal had come up and he was suddenly talking to a businesswoman rather than the lovely girl he had grown to know throughout high school. From what he had heard—talk around the town, and his own father—Archie learned that Veronica, the girl who had so many qualms about the family business, had entirely taken over.

Remembering what she had told him prior to his flight, Archie picked up his phone and quickly dialled the number.

"Hello, Archie," Veronica's voice always retained a certain mischievous note to it.

"Hey," he took the time to take off his tie, "just wanted to let you know that I've finally checked into the hotel."

Archie heard a chuckle on the other side of the line, "I'm very glad to hear that. Is the hotel up to your standards?"

"Up to my standards?" It was his time to chuckle. "It's way above my current standards."

"Archie," she still sounded more like a girl than a serious CEO, "you deserve only the best."

"Thank you," he paused, looking over the night-time city scape, "Ronnie." The nickname had always been a sign of endearment, even after their romance had ended.

"Tomorrow," Veronica continued, "would you prefer the meeting at 9 or 10. Better make it 10, it is pretty late and you must be exhausted."

"Yeah," he was feeling quite exhausted, and he was yet to go out and find a place to have dinner, "yeah. Ten sounds much better."

"Great, I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you, Miss Lodge."

"Oh, shut up," there was a pause on the other line, "Archibald."

"Oh, God."

"Think about it the next time you refer to me as Miss Lodge."

"I will," Archie promised.

"Good," there was shuffling on Veronica's side and for half a minute he could only hear muffled voices. "Gotta go, see you tomorrow."

"Bye," the line had already gone dead, the faint beeping signalling that Veronica Lodge had ended the conversation.

There was a time lapse, a pause between the conversation with Veronica and the time Archie left his hotel room in search of a good, nearby pizza place, or even better a burger joint. He spent the time lying on the soft bed, as the grumbling of his empty stomach increased in frequency. It felt as if his body was yelling at him, begging for food. Talking to Veronica after years of not seeing her, let alone hearing her voice, brought up memories. Sure, sometimes—when he least expected it—his father would forward an email from Lodge Industries to him, for Archie to proofread, and he would always remain a bit shocked at the mention of her name. They kept the business relationship alive, the Lodges and the Andrews, after all Hermione and Hiram may have been walking a fine line toying with the illegality of their company and actions, but it was a good—even better, a great—gateway for Andrews Construction to finally spread its wings. Soon after Archie got his scholarship, Fred was able to open another office in Maryland. Other states followed, and now the deal with Veronica—and by extent the Lodge Industries—would enable them to open a brand new office in New York. Fred had even suggested making it the main office, but Archie insisted they take it slow, test the waters before plunging in.

The deal had to be signed, and done, and delivered.

The memories though, stayed with Archie as he stepped outside into the cold evening. The bustle of the city helped him get lost, and he found himself thinking about Riverdale. He had not been back in a while, a couple of months at least. Fred had given him full control of the Maryland office and Archie immersed himself in it. The office was small though, and rather than investing there the Andrews'—coupled with a group of financial advisors—decided New York was the best place for their next investment. Backed by the Lodge Industries—a deal that Archie just had to get done the following morning—the quantity of the competition in the state would amount to nearly nothing.

Across the road, the red head spotted a burger joint. The small sign lit up just above the entrance and the place stood out as if it had been the only thing in colour. He walked in, a familiar jingle reminding him of high school days and Pop's, and ordered. The booth he sat in seemed too large for one person, but the place had been nearly empty, and it gave him a nice view of the busy street, so he felt no guilt at taking up the so much space. The food turned out to be average; nothing could ever beat Pop's burgers—even if their quality partially came from a rather sentimental place—not for Archie, at least.

He left, the burger finished, but he had left the fries half eaten, there had been too much salt on the potatoes. Outside, the city stayed the same, everything moved as if time did not pass, unlike Riverdale, or even the Maryland office. The only sign of the day dwindling was the girl in the small coffee shop on the corner. He saw her from across the busy street, mopping the floor. The sign above entrance read _Amelie_ , and Archie thought it was a cliché name for such a French looking place. Nevertheless, he decided to go in for a cup of coffee before the meeting tomorrow; it looked like a nice enough place to have breakfast and he had been dying for a good croissant lately.

Archie threw up twice during the night; of course, he was not wrong about the burger tasting funny, but he chucked it up, at the time, to a different mixture of spices. How could he have known that—having realized he came from out of town, because he stuck out as a sore thumb—the waitress would serve him the burger that had been returned half a day ago? Finally, after 4 a.m. had passed and his stomach had been emptied the boy—because no matter how grown up he seemed, he was young still—fell asleep, cuddled up to the many pillows.

The morning came too soon, with a horrid taste in Archie's mouth and a thoroughly empty stomach. He drew himself a bath in the spacious tub, and watched the hotel room light up with the morning sun. The scruff on his face was barely a few days old, and though he had planned on shaving before the meeting, he could not bring himself to make good on that promise. Instead, he spent the time in the warm bath, relishing the way his muscles finally relaxed after a tiresome night. Next time he ate out in the city, he would make sure to visit one of the chain restaurants, not one of the local places. Not unless he was accompanied by a knowledgeable local that knew where the foods were dangerous for a delicate man such as himself.

He dressed in a daze, all the while staring at his own reflection in the mirror. The face that looked back showed no sign of the restless night he had spent; if anything the five o'clock shadow he had decided to keep made him look somewhat older and more mature. It was a good look, especially paired with the new suit his dad bought him for the deal. Archie avoided asking how much it cost—he knew it could not have been cheap—but rather enjoyed the perfect fit. The days where he would wear Fred Andrew's slightly oversized suits to business meetings were long gone. The company had grown; they had dug themselves out of debt by working hard, and at times digging themselves a bit deeper.

When he left the hotel that morning and stepped outside into the cold there was a glint of pride in Archie's eyes, an air of confidence to his demeanour, despite the horrible night he had spent in one of the most comfortable beds he had slept in, surrounded by some of the plushest pillows. He walked with a purpose, more so a man than a boy, towards the coffee shop he spotted last night. It seemed like a place that would not give him another round of food poisoning. After all, how could a bite of a croissant ruin your day?

The door jingled, transporting him—for the second time in the past 24 hours—to his hometown and the familiar diner. Inside the colours were pastel – pinks, blues, greens in the form of various subtle plants, and mostly just white and crisp. For a moment, it made him think of Betty.

Betty Cooper and her blonde hair and blue eyes.

Betty, who wore those shades so beautifully throughout high school.

Betty whom he had not talked to in years.

Betty, the girl he regretted kissing.

Betty, the girl he sometimes—when he was feeling particularly nostalgic—regretted not kissing _more_.

Betty Cooper who stood before him, sporting a navy shirt with a nametag, and—to add to his shock—messy bangs.

"Betty," the shock in Archie's voice was apparent.

She stared at him, blue eyes sharp beneath her blonde hair, "Archie?" He was glad to hear that the girl was as surprised as he was.

"Hi," he breathed. "Uh, hi."

"Yeah, hey."

"What—"

"Do you want to order," Betty started, but cut herself off. Her hand flew to her forehead and in a moment, she was the girl he had always known, flustered and a bit embarrassed. She rolled her eyes, chuckling to herself. "Do you want to order, what a _stupid_ question," her smile was as bright as ever, though he could not help but notice the bags under her eyes. " _Of course_ you want to order."

"Uh," he grinned, mind still buzzing with the revelation that she was standing in front of him, "yeah."

"So, what's it going to be?"

"Uhm, whatever is the best croissant you have here," he listened to her type in the order, "and some tea that's good for an upset stomach?"

Betty pursed her lips, "I have just the thing. You go on and sit down, I'll be right there."

"I was going to just get it to go," Archie started, "but never mind, I can sit down a for a little while." Veronica would not be upset if he happened to be a few minutes late. He could always blame it on the burger joint and food poisoning.

"So," he heard her speak before he saw her appear in his peripheral vision, "what brings you here?"

The blonde sat down in the chair across from him, and Archie could not help but stare. The tray she sat down before him had a small teapot of what she told him was fennel tea—great for an upset stomach, she claimed—and a croissant. The girl refused to tell him what it was made of.

"What if I'm allergic?"

A small crease formed between her brows as she frowned, "I've known you my whole life, I'm pretty sure I know all about your non-existent allergies, Archie Andrews."

"Maybe it's a new development," he said, taking a bite.

"I'll risk it."

Betty watched on as he chewed, observing the scruff on his face and the way his jaw tightened with each bite.

"Oh my… Betty, _what_ is this made of?"

"Magic," she grinned teasingly, reminding him a bit too much of another girl he used to know that did that. "And some almonds."

"Knew it."

"So," the bright pink lipstick she wore made it hard for him to focus on anything other than her lips, "let me reiterate. What brings you here?"

"I was hungry," Archie replied, a smirk growing on his face.

Betty kicked him under the table, narrowing her eyes at the boy sitting across from her, and for a moment they were back at Pop's, back in Riverdale, back to being two kids who had no idea what the future held.

"I meant New York."

"Business," Archie replied, omitting details, before biting into the warm pastry.

"Look at you," there was a certain softness to Betty's smile, "a businessman." There was even a tone of pride in her voice. "So the company is doing fine, I suppose?"

"Great, even."

"That suit looks expensive."

"I did not check the tag."

"It suits you."

"Thanks, Betty," he paused for a second, looking over her face. "The bangs look great."

She left him after a minute, an array of new customers piled into the place and she had to return to the register where her co-workers were balancing the fresh unexpected load of orders. Archie counted the bills while preparing to leave. As he rummaged through the leather wallet, he made a decision, however rash and wrong and impulsive it seemed; it had to be right. His heartbeat increased significantly, as he approached Betty who stood, once again, behind the register.

"Leaving?"

"Business," he shrugged, placing the neat bills in front of her.

"That's generous," she murmured looking over the crisp bills, and he could not help but look at her lips in a slight daze.

"My card is in there," Archie hoped, with all he had, that his voice did not give away his nerves. "We should grab dinner one of these days. I'm here until Saturday."

"Oh," Betty's blue eyes widened in surprise.

"Just… text me," he smiled, shrugging his shoulders, then walked away, the jingle at the door bidding him goodbye, without turning back.

As he walked down the street, with ten minutes to spare before the meeting, he grew from the boy—that he had inevitably become before Betty Cooper—back into the man he had learned to be.

Veronica Lodge greeted him in her spacious office. Her hair was cut in a neat bob, and her lips were painted a deep red, unlike the distracting pink Betty wore. Half an hour later, the deal was signed and sealed, and they took time to catch up and talk about their lives. Veronica poured each a glass of expensive bourbon. Archie omitted mentioning Betty, and if she had any idea where Betty worked, Veronica too chose not to mention it, too.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** These two just write themselves. Please review if you like this, it gives me great motivation and inspiration to continue writing. Also I promise some extra drama, pining, and a sprinkle of angst._


	3. 3

**{full-on rainstorm}**

* * *

Days working as the CEO of Lodge Industries were usually made up of boring paperwork, coffee breaks, lunch meetings in fancy restaurants, and handling the major executive decisions. Veronica's stilettos made a distinct noise when she walked through the wide hallway towards the lift. It was the sound of expensive shoes hitting the marble floor, a design choice made by the very woman in question herself. She enjoyed the soft clicks she could hear while she walked on as the employees pretended to work harder than they truly were (or that she would expect them to).

The lift, spacious and empty, carried her from the 28th floor to the ground, where the marble was replaced by far less enticing material, and the sound of her walking towards the exit mixed with the noise of other employees leaving the building. In the very front, blocking a part of the road, she saw the dark Lincoln. The sound her heels made against the pavement and concrete alerted the few people in her way, and the path to the elegant car cleared. There, next to it, read for her arrival, stood Henry, her driver. The man greeted her with a gentle smile, and opened the back door of the Lincoln. Veronica relished the familiar smell and the softness of the leather, it was the first car she had decided to buy on her own, and for that, she adored it that much more.

"Home, Miss Lodge," Henry asked while taking a seat and buckling up.

A smirk spread on Veronica's lips, "I was thinking Betty's place."

"Still the same address?"

"I think so," she paused, considering calling her friend, "I _hope_ so." She put down the phone, hoping that the lovely blonde had not decided to up and move while Veronica was busy with running her company.

"Buckle up," the man in the driver's seat smiled, checking the blind spot before merging with the city's oncoming traffic.

At any other time of the day, the drive would have taken them ten minutes at most. During the afternoon rush hour, however, one should expect the standard time to increase. It was not as much infrastructure problem of that part of the city, but rather the sheer amount of drivers and their lack of care for anyone else. Put simply, it was usually due to human selfishness that Veronica's afternoon rides took longer than what she would expect them to.

"We're here, Miss Lodge," the car came to a halt. "I think it's starting to rain, though. Would you like me to get you your umbrella?"

"No need, Henry," the brunette smiled, "but do call me Veronica, we've been over this."

"Ah," the man pause, "yes, of course. Veronica."

"I'll call when I need you back," she said right before exiting the car, "but do wait a couple of minutes, just in case she moved without letting me know." The two chuckled, before she walked away from the car.

Henry watched the small, yet intimidating woman approach the entrance to the building. Once there, she narrowed her eyes at the intercom, scanning for the familiar last name. With a grin, she turned towards the Lincoln, the car still waiting by the sidewalk, and waved while letting herself in through the heavy entrance door. The intercom system had been redundant; anyone could open the door because it never properly shut unless it had been locked from the inside.

The old elevator took her to the second to last floor, rattling and shaking all the while, where she walked along the familiar hallway until she had to turn left, and from there she walked until the very end of the hallway. She buzzed the doorbell once, then twice, hearing it echo through the apartment. Following the noise of the doorbell, Veronica heard the unmistakable sound of bare feet walking across the hardwood floor, and then—finally—the rattling of the door lock.

At half past six, Betty's leisure afternoon watching re-runs of Gilmore Girls was interrupted by the unpleasant noise of the doorbell. She bolted up from the comfortable couch and walked, dressed in a tank top and a pair of shorts, from the living room into the small hallway. On the other side of the door, through the peephole, Betty spotted an unfamiliar bob on a very familiar face.

"Veronica?" Betty frowned, unlocking and opening the door.

"Ding, dong," she smiled, for once in her life taller than the blonde.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, can't a girl visit her friend?"

Betty shrugged her shoulders and watched as Veronica slipped out of the expensive shoes. "I mean sure, but what if I was at work?"

"I would have gone to _Amelie's_ then," dark red lips spread into a smile. "By the way, I always forget to ask, why is it _Amelie's_ and not _Rosalind's_?"

"I think her mother was French," Betty replied.

"Hm," the other nodded, satisfied with the answer.

"So," they walked into the living room, and the blonde returned to the comfortable positon on her lovely sofa. "What are you up to, Veronica?"

The dark haired woman sighed softly, "Get me out of these clothes and I'll tell you all about it." She gestured to the tight pencil skirt and the button up she wore tucked inside it.

"I'm afraid you're not my type, Ron," Betty quipped while walking towards her room.

"Why are you taking me to your bedroom, then?" Her friend followed close by.

The blonde scoffed, "To get you something proper to wear."

"Oh, goodie," Veronica slipped out of her clothes, throwing both items over Betty's chair. For moment she thought of the large windows in the bedroom and how anyone could see her—the CEO of Lodge Industries—standing half-naked in her expensive lingerie with an unfamiliar blonde woman. The titles would write themselves, and the tabloids would have a field day.

"Here you go," Betty handed her a set of pink pyjama bottoms and an old Pop's t-shirt, and stepped back into the living area. It was essentially the biggest room in the apartment; kitchen, dining room and living room all rolled into one. She enjoyed the open concept of it all. Besides, the large industrial windows and exposed brick presented a great contrast to her personality. It was her favourite out of the four apartments she has lived in since her move to the city.

Betty had just settled back into her spot on the couch when her friend stepped into the living room. The pyjama pants were a bit lengthy on her, though not by much; she plopped herself down on the couch next to the blonde's feet. They sat in silence as Lorelei talked about coffee and the sound of rain against the windows increased.

"So," Veronica started, interrupting a classic town meeting scene. "Have anything you would like to share?"

She watched as Betty sat upright and paused the episode, "You're being awfully inquisitive."

"We haven't seen each other in a while, I'm just curious," the brunette smirked, her eyes narrowing as she studied the other's face.

Betty shrugged her shoulders dismissively, "I mean, there's a new tenant in the apartment below. They have really loud sex." She grimaced, "And it sounds horrible. Not like good sex, you know, but just… cringe."

This earned her a laugh from Veronica, soft and warm, "I can't believe you won't move in with me. There are _five_ bedrooms in that penthouse. I get _so lonely_."

"And what?" The blonde smirked, nudging her with her foot, "Listen to you and Sergio have sex?"

"Oh, come on," they both chuckled, "the rooms are sound proof in the penthouse." Veronica winked.

"How's Sergio anyway, you two are still doing fine?"

"Funnily enough," the other girl shrugged, "he also does not want to move in."

An hour passed as the two talked, mostly about Sergio and his constant fear of Hiram Lodge. The two ordered Chinese takeout, indulging in a copious amount of spring rolls. They were nearly done with the third season of Gilmore Girls when Veronica decided to stop beating around the bush in the middle of _Keg! Max!._

"I saw Archie today," she spoke, as if it was a natural continuation of their previous conversation.

"Excuse me?"

"Archie. Andrews," Veronica elaborated, unsure if she really had to. "Lodge Industries and Andrews' Construction have always been on, well, at least solid terms. We had to sign some papers. It was no big deal."

"Oh, yeah," Betty nodded, looking a bit dazed, "business stuff."

"I just thought I should let you know," her friend paused, as if waiting for her reaction and the blonde had to wonder if she knew.

"That's… nice of you."

Silence enveloped the two as each waited for the other to give in. Veronica, on her side of the couch, was waiting patiently for Betty to admit to seeing Archie; at least she hoped she had seen him, she hoped the idiot decided to waltz into the coffee shop. The plan had not been a direct plan at first. She had genuinely booked Archie a room in a hotel close to Lodge Industries. Originally, it had been the one just across the street from the building she worked in, but then she remembered Betty who had been refusing all of her attempts at setting her up with Sergio's—her boyfriend of one year—friends. So, Veronica decided to play matchmaker with two of her oldest best friends, and their untouched potential.

"Oh, come on," she muttered. "Don't tell me the dumbass did not walk into that coffee shop." Betty's eyes grew wide. "I specifically cancelled the arrangements I've made in order to book him a room in that hotel down the street so that he would _have_ to spot that place."

Wide blue eyes stared at her in silence, the neat elegant eyebrows above them raised in shock, "You what?"

"Did he, then?"

"Uh, um, I mean… yes," Betty sputtered out. "But, you what?"

Veronica repeated her story, giving her friend a bit more detail the second time around. Once Betty confirmed that the man in question had, most certainly, walked into the small coffee shop she seemed rather pleased with herself. Topping it off was the knowledge that he had left Betty his phone number. This she had not hoped for. It was among her best-case scenarios, surely, but she was not hoping for such a swift development without her having to intervene. In fact, the brunette had half expected there to be some resistance, though she was still unsure if Betty would be as easy to comply with her scheme as Archie had, apparently, been.

"Did you call him?"

"No."

"Well, did you text him," Veronica was slowly coming to realize that—yes, indeed—Betty would prove to be the difficult one.

"No!"

She let out an exasperated sight at her friend's scandalized reply, "Why are you being so difficult?"

"It's strange, we haven't talked in years."

"So," they were both sitting up on the couch, facing each other, "we haven't either, Archie and I. And we caught up nicely after the meeting."

"I don't know, Ronnie," she sighed, "I'll think about it."

"Good," her friend replied, entirely unsatisfied with the response, but knowing it would do no good to push Betty.

She did think about it after Veronic left. Betty spent an hour lying on her couch and staring blankly at the characters go about Stars Hollow, though she barely paid attention to the plot. It did not matter; she had watched the season enough times to know what happened next. Her phone remained clutched in her right hand. Every five minutes she would unlock it, sliding her finger gently across the screen, only to stare at the newly added contact. The name Archie stared back at her, illuminating her face in cool tones cast from the phone's screen. Betty would almost— _almost!_ —muster up the courage to text him. Inevitably, though, she paused over the send button before deleting the whole text and locking her phone once again. There was no rhyme or reason to the anxiety she got at the thought of texting her childhood best friend, and yet… Yet, it was there, without a fail.

The twentieth time it happened she sat up, bolted upright on the couch, just as the first thunder rumbled outside. Her elegant fingers glided across the screen as she searched through the contacts. When she reached him, without taking a second breath, the girl pressed call and brought the phone up to her ear.

"Betty?" The voice on the other line was raspy, as if he had just woken up.

"Hey, Jug," she whispered softly, "can you talk? Are you working?"

There was some shuffling on his side, "No, no. I was just taking a nap; I was working on the last chapter until 5."

"You're finished?"

She heard him sigh, "Yes. Yes, I am. I can send you this rough draft, in fact. If you want to check it out."

"Sure, I'd love to," the thunder outside startled her. "I haven't read a good book in a while."

"That… is a complete lie, and you know it."

"I know, I know."

"What's bothering you?" He questioned, suspiciously. Betty could imagine him narrowing his eyes at her, mouth set in a curious half smirk.

She held the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she opened the door to the fridge. Cereal was most definitely not the best option for a late night snack, but it would have to do. "Bothering me? Nothing. Why would you think that?"

"Uh," there was a pause on Jughead's side, "because we usually text?"

The spoon hitting the ceramic bowl echoed through the empty apartment. "True, that's true. Do you still pour milk first and then add cereal, Jug?"

"Ah, changing the topic," Jughead chuckled. "So, there's _definitely_ something bothering you."

"Hm."

"Hm?"

"Let me eat my cereal first," she told him, already shoving a spoonful in her mouth. The soft crunch of Cheerios was the only sound the two could here for half a minute. "You talk."

Jughead agreed, reluctantly, to tell her about his work. He, of course, found it incredibly tedious and boring because he usually—nearly every single time—told her about the big, important things that happened while they were texting existential memes to one another. It had started off as a joke, the meme texting, a year ago, but became their thing. He had even offered, on multiple occasions, to let him publish her book, or at least he told her she should write one and he would sneak it through the publishing process in the company he worked for. Betty always refused, with an explanation that stories and fiction were never her thing, that those had always been Jughead's strength.

Once he heard her place the bowl into dishwasher, Betty knew the dillydallying had been over and done with. "Now, after I've most certainly bored you to death with my life… your turn. What's wrong?"

Betty was sure he could hear her sigh three times before she replied, "Archie stopped by the coffee shop today."

"Oh, how is he?"

"He's good," but that was not right, was it? "Great, actually," that sounded more correct to her.

"Yeah, dad told me the company is doing great, I mean he works there, he would know."

"Everyone knows," Betty noted, "everyone but me, I guess."

"Is that the issue?"

"Not really."

"Spit it out, Cooper."

"You're so demanding, Jug."

"Out with it."

"I liked you better when you were a brooding teenager."

This made him chuckle, "I know, I remember. Sort of why we dated."

"Yes, your brooding and _that_ beanie," her tone turned to teasing, and for a moment she had forgotten why she had called him in the first place.

"Good times," Jughead's voice, which took on a more serious tone, brought her back to reality, "will you tell me, or do I have to die of curiosity?"

"He sort of," she paused, unsure of whether her interpretation of the whole event had been overdone. Perhaps she was fussing over nothing. "He said we should grab dinner. Which is odd," Betty added quickly, "because we haven't talked in years, I don't know why, maybe it was my fault… and now he waltzes into my workplace in a fancy suit and is all like _'we should grab dinner_..." she lowered her voice as she impersonated Archie. " _I'm a fancy business man now, ho-ha look at me_.'" It came out in a rant. A sort of a ramble and from the other side of the phone line Bette heard her friend laughing.

" _Ho-ha, look at me_ ," he said between two bursts of laughter, "you really do him justice. That's exactly what he sounds like."

"Jug…"

"I don't see the issue. Go have dinner with Archie. He's not some stranger, you've known each other your whole lives. Go, catch up, and tell him to buy my book."

"You just want to sell your book," she whined.

"Maybe. Honestly, though, I don't see why you're so torn up over it."

She thought about it then, for a good, long second. "Well, what if he means it as a date?"

"What if?"

"Yes, what if."

"No, I meant," she heard him pause, and though she could not see him Betty knew with certainty that he must have stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. "I meant, would that be bad?"

"What!?"

"Don't sound so scandalized," there was yet another pause. "Would you mind it if it was an actual date?"

"I don't—no, I wouldn't, I guess."

"Then what's the issue?"

"I—I just—I mean, oh fuck," the rain had only increased and she realized the small window in the kitchen had been opened the whole time. "I don't think there is an issue?"

"Good."

"I guess."

"Don't overthink it, Betty," his voice softened. "I have to go, Bianca's car is in the shop so I have to pick her up after her shift ends."

"I always forget you West Coasters are eternally basking in sunshine," she grumbled while assessing the size of the puddle on the kitchen floor.

"Yeah, yeah… say hello to Archie from me."

He hung up before the blonde could protest and left her with a decent amount of water to mop up, and a decision to mull over.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Hope you like, please review, and next chapter we get some Archie Betty interaction._

 _xx_


	4. 4

**{I almost do}**

Her fingers slid across the touch screen too many times in the past half an hour. Betty was anxious. It was visible in the way she bit her lip, and the way she paused putting the dishes away just to stare at Archie's contact card in her phone, finger hovering over call button. There was not much to be nervous about. She had talked to Rosalind about taking the early morning shifts for the following few days. It left her with a free afternoon and evening until the end of the week, should Archie want to meet up with her.

The phone buzzes on the counter next to her just as she takes on the hardship of washing the large pot in which she had prepared the lunch that day. Betty would be startled if she had not been receiving an array of texts from both Veronica and Jughead, who have somehow managed to sync their interrogation perfectly. Veronica, the culprit behind the anxiety inducing situation Betty found herself in, skipped the niceties, and inquired about the time and place of the date—a word Betty refused to utilize to describe any potential time spent with Archie Andrews—right away, then proceeded to question Betty on her outfit of choice, in a classic Veronica Lodge fashion. The woman could not be blamed for her persistent texting. Betty may have been ignoring her for the better part of the day due to the fact that, as cowardly as she was, she did not call her childhood best friend, thus there was not time and place set, and she need not yet worry over her completely inadequate wardrobe.

Jughead, on the other hand, came as a surprise. A worrisome, albeit refreshing, surprise.

 _Talked to Archie_ , it read in that crisp, elegant font, completely ignoring the last few texts she had sent him, which—Betty decided upon further recollection—was quite rude of him because she had sent him at least two funny memes, and one mediocre one.

She felt her heart race, the palpitations increasing with each passing second as her fingers shook.

 _What do you mean?_

The silence that spanned from the moment she pressed send to the second when the screen lit up in her hand was hardly deafening. The traffic outside interrupted it, and the news on the TV—which she had turned on to drown out the silence of an empty apartment—seemed to work in her favour, keeping her mind focused on other things rather than the crippling fear of being sold out by her best friend. Except Jughead would never do that to her, so Betty held onto that little sliver of hope. Her fingers had gone numb from the strength she applied to clutching her phone. In a sense, it was ridiculous that the mere mention of Archie's name could still render her a nervous, anxious wreck.

 _Relax, I didn't sell you out. Just told him I've been tipped off about his whereabouts._

The text was no less unsettling. Betty felt the heat rise through her body, as her mind raced.

 ** _And?_**

 _Oh, so you want me to tell you what Archie told me…_

 _but I can't tell him what you told me?_

 ** _Don't be an ass_**

 _Fine_

She had to wait then, for an excruciating minute, until the uninformative few sentences arrived. On the other side of the conversation Jughead considered carefully what could and could not be said. He considered just how much information Betty needed to feel at ease, while simultaneously keeping in mind that betraying one's childhood best friend—even for your high school best friend, Archie versus Betty—was not, in any case scenario, a particularly nice thing to do. And Jughead had just decided that being nice was going to be his thing.

 _He says he's glad he ran into you, and that Veronica is like a nice evil mastermind (which I always knew). Also he's very extremely hopeful that you two will have time to meet up and catch up. ;)_

The message did not fail to calm Betty down, though it did not have the soothing effect she had hoped for. It was not, quite obviously, the entirety of what he knew, but Jughead had managed—as he often did—to pinpoint what she needed to hear in order to stop her brain from going haywire. Often times she would tell him he was her mental acupuncturist, though it may have been her constant need to have him as both, her therapist and boyfriend, that ultimately sent them into the platonic waters they've been threading so wonderfully over the past few years.

 _Thank you_ , turned out to be the most genuine text she could send him, before her ultimate return to staring down the bright screen as it mocked her, the rest of the dirty dishes long forgotten in the sink. It mocked her as she reached for a glass, and continued mocking her while she poured herself a glass of white wine, the one she really should not have bought because she technically could not afford it, but she did anyway. She bought it because she drinks wine so very seldom. She bought it because, despite second-guessing all of her recent decisions, she deserved to treat herself to a bottle of fine wine, which she could turn to in dire times of need.

The relaxation was short lived; Betty could not even enjoy a glass of her favourite wine without experiencing a mild sensation of shock and terror. The onset of the new wave was caused by the screen of her phone lightning up as the name Archie flashed towards her, as always - mockingly. The device buzzed on the kitchen island, where she had left it while pouring the wine, and the noise was deafening. Just before she decided to pick up the phone a text from Jughead flashed across the screen.

 _Gave him your number ;)_

Her initial reaction was to call Jughead an ass, but then again he rid her of her worst fear. By giving Archie, who—among the two of them—was less of a coward, Jug had managed to remove the decision making away from Betty. It was good on his part to rid her of it, of her terrible fear. Instead of her calling Archie he had turned the tables and Archie was now calling her, which although still terrifying, turned out to be far less unsettling.

"Uh, hello?" Her voice sounded weak.

"Hey," he dragged out the greeting. "Betty, how are you?"

"Good, good," she had to pause to take a large gulp of the wine if she was going to survive this. "Busy, actually. Yeah."

"Oh, is this a bad timing?"

"NO!" Perhaps she should not yell at him if she planned on going on a date. "No, no. It's fine. I'm just taking a break… from things."

"That's great," Betty could imagine his lips spreading into a smile. "What are you doing tomorrow evening?"

One more sip of wine, and Betty was ready. "Oh, probably nothing. I'll have to check with Rosalind.—uh, my boss—with shifts and all at the café."

Liar, liar, liar. She had switched all of her shifts the moment she had any sort of inkling or an idea that she might get to meet up with Archie. Rosalind would have switched them for her if she had not, in fact. The woman nearly insisted she take the days off entirely, just in case, while mentioning that morning sex was one of her most favourite. Betty decided to drown that statement out with static noise, hoping to one day have it erased from her memory completely.

"Oh, well," Archie paused on the other side, considering their options. "Well, I'm free anytime. Just let me know, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Sure... How about tomorrow night?"

"Oh, will your boss be okay with that?"

"She'll make me go, to be honest," it was time to own up to the white lie she told not a minute ago. "I don't know why I even mentioned the shifts, I've already switched to morning ones anyway. At least for the week."

"That's great then," on the other side of the phone line, Archie remained—as far as Betty was concerned—oblivious to her ulterior motives. Although she enjoyed the morning shift because it left her more time for writing in the afternoon, no one could be as crazy as taking on more than two morning shifts in a row. At least a sane person would not do it unless there were ulterior motives involved.

"Yeah, so I'll see you tomorrow?"

"When?"

"Uhm, I guess 6 works?"

"Yeah," Archie paused. "That's fine. Where are you taking me?"

"Huh?"

"I nearly got food poisoning when I tried eating at interesting local places on my own," Betty chuckled remembering the way he looked the morning she first saw him. "So, either you take me to a safe place or we're doing your standard fast food chain restaurant."

"Wow, Arch," her laughter echoed through the empty apartment. "Romantic as always."

The long pause on the other side swayed Betty's comfort, making her wonder if she had, perhaps, overstepped the line.

"Uh, well," Archie fumbling over his words had always been one of his most endearing qualities. "I mean I can ask Veronica for a nice place, and such if—if you'd like that."

"Calm down," his reaction made her feel better about her own nerves. "We'll go for a walk, there is this nice Italian place, they have fantastic pizza, not like we're dating or anything," Stupid, stupid, she wanted to shout at herself. "… just don't wear a suit, be casual."

If only she could take her own advice.

If Betty could ever take her own advice, she thought, staring at the pile of clothes strewn across her room, she may have far less problems in life. The sound of her foot drumming against the wooden floor boards echoed through the apartment. On her neatly made bed, which a decent portion of her clothes has since covered, sat both Veronica and Rosalind—who insisted on taking part in 'little' Betty's first official date—a most curious scene. When Rosalind came knocking on her door with a small suitcase in one hand, and a batch of brownies in the other Betty could not turn her away for three reasons. One, Rosalind was, although her employer, one of the few people in the city who—Betty thought—genuinely cared about her well being. Two, Rosalind wore the most exquisite clothing pieces to work, which piqued the blonde's interest as to what she had intended for her date. Three, Veronica insisted she stay, if not for good company then at least for the brownies she brought.

Both women were observing Betty's half naked form, a pair of mint blue panties and a matching bra being the only thing she had on, as her back remained turned to them. Her clothes never seemed more boring and prude and she had changed her style significantly over the years. New York made her bolder, there was exposed brick in her apartment, and she liked wearing stilettos with heels that could kill a man when occasion called for it. It had balanced out in the end, the darkness she had felt as a teen instead of being constrained by her parents found its way into her life. Once unleashed, it turned out the darkness was nothing more than the desire to be free of her own image, to be free of the expectations… and the city gave it to her by providing her with much needed distance from who she was expected to grow into.

"Ah, will you please stop it," Rosalind cried from behind her, and Betty snapped out of it.

"I'm sorry," she turned to face the two, "my wardrobe is just so… unfitting?"

Veronica chuckled, "I told you I could bring some of my clothes, but you refused."

"Your clothes would make me feel uncomfortable," was the only explanation offered. "Besides, I _like_ my own clothes."

Rosalind sighed. "You shouldn't listen to this one, Vera," the woman already managed to assign a fresh nickname to Veronica. "She needs a push in the right direction."

"I'm right here," Betty waved at the two.

"We know, B," Veronica smiled softly. "But you're being unreasonable."

"Exactly," Rosalind agreed, munching on a brownie. "You haven't even looked at the dress I brought."

"What is this," the blonde motioned at the two. "Team up on Betty thing. I dislike it."

"Just try the red dress," her boss, who was sprawled across her bed nearly cried at her.

"Red?"

"Red."

"Veronica…" The imploring gaze she directed at her best friend was met by a simple shrug.

"I'm not going to disagree, Betty. Red would look good on you."

With very little resolve left in her body, Betty had no other choice but to give in. She did it because nothing in her closet satisfied the way she wanted to look that evening. She did because once the red dress was before her there was no hiding the smile on her face. Rosalind beamed at her and insisted she keep the dress forever. It was from a small boutique from the trip she took around Europe when she was her age, and—the woman claimed—she never wore it after that summer.

The material of the dress was soft, like silk on her body, except that I was not silk at all. It draped around her, tight and form fitting, with a neck plunge that made her want to stare down at her boobs for a while. Veronica made her wear the shiny black stilettos, and Rosalind chose the appropriate coat, out of the sad choice of two that Betty owned. A thought raced through her mind, when the two left, that she had instructed Archie to stay casual yet there she was, decidedly far from being casual. In between wanting to stay true to her own advice, and impressing Archibald, the blonde decided on the latter.

When she left her apartment, and met Archie at the entrance, Betty had to supress her smile at the look on his face.

"Hey," he breathed, eyebrows rising momentarily. "Nice dress." He wore a pair of jeans and a black button up. The leather jacket on top kept the outfit more casual.

"Uh, thanks."

"Unlike you."

They started walking, and with each click of the stilettos Betty felt her confidence grow. "Unlike Riverdale me."

"Is there a new you," Archie wondered how different she had become.

"The New York me."

"Will I like her?"

"Let us hope," Betty said, accompanying the response with a wink.

As he watched her walk away Archie Andrews knew… the New York Betty Cooper will be the death of him.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Sorry for the long delay! Thank you for your lovely reviews. This chapter is a bit on the short side, but the next will be only Betty + Archie soo... :D_


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